


The Graveyard

by amarillogrande



Series: Holy Trinity [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, Bottom Dean, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Alternating, Pining Castiel, Pining Dean, Roommates, Slow Burn, Tattoo Artist Castiel, Tattooed Castiel, Top Castiel, seriously all the pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-11 08:41:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1171008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amarillogrande/pseuds/amarillogrande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Okay, look. You finish it, then you stick it up on top of the shelves. And then…well, the bottle is there to remind you. Hence the name—“ Dean spreads his arms, indicating the endless rows of glass. “The graveyard.”</p>
<p>Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak are best friends, living together for the past two years and about to graduate in the spring. It might take a visit from Dean's little brother to get them to realize just exactly how they feel about each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first college AU, so don't judge me. Will be updated frequently, hopefully about 8 parts or so. Enjoy!  
> Tumblr: [x](http://chevrolangels.tumblr.com/post/75758100457/the-graveyard)  
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker.”  
> —Ogden Nash

April

Senior Year 

**

“Graveyard?”

“Jesus, Sammy, what did you  _do_ your first year of college?”

Dean is sprawled across the couch, idly scratching his head as he holds his calc book up to his face, but he’s not really taking anything in. Finals coming up in a couple of weeks, but he hasn’t fucking seen his little brother in about four months, so, yeah. Not exactly a recipe for paying attention.

“Study mostly,” Sam shoots back. “Which you obviously didn’t.”

“Shut up.” 

Sam’s leaning back against the counter of their crappy little kitchen, slightly hunched over so he doesn’t completely tower over the rest of them. He looks like a giant in the too-small room, and Dean bites his lip, fighting back a laugh.

Sam crosses his arms, casting an indignant eye over the multicolored bottles littering the top of the cabinets, all shapes and sizes jumbled together.

“Dean,” he snorts, shaking his head. “You’re practically an alcoholic.”

He holds up a hand. “Hey, Cas helped.” He jerks his thumb to indicate the knot of messy hair over in the corner. “He can hold his liquor, for a complete nerd.”

“I resent that.”

Cas doesn’t look up from his philosophy textbook, and Dean can only see the top of his head, peeking over the pages.

Stupid Cas. He apparently didn’t know about the existence of styling gel, despite all of Dean's chastising, meaning his hair was always all over the place, like he had just whirled in after a particularly enthusiastic sex session in a closet.

Dean’s fingers twitch, and he sits on them.

Sam squints, inching closer to properly see one of the bottles, turning it around so the label is facing him.

“Skinny Girl margarita mix?” He asks, raising an eyebrow. Dean hears Cas chuckle quietly under his breath, and Dean scowls, kicking him under the table.

“Ash thought that would be oh-so-funny to bring as a housewarming gift,” Dean explains quickly, standing up. “Probably should get rid of that one, to be honest.” He crosses to where Sam’s lounging and starts to grasp for the offending bottle, but he can’t quite get to it. Sam laughs as Dean struggles, barely brushing the glass.

Cas pipes up.

“It wasn’t that bad, you know.”

Dean ignores him, still resolutely reaching up to the top of the cabinet, almost losing his balance.

“Here, Jeez—“

Sam takes pity on him and grabs it, shoving it into his hands. “Before you break something.”

Dean twirls it in his fingers, winking at him. “Thanks, Sasquatch.”

He tosses it into the overflowing recycling bin and walks back into the living room, flopping back down on the couch. “Have to say,” he admits, not bothering to pick up his textbook again. “Lotta memories associated with that night.”

He leaves the question hanging heavy in the air. Finally Sam bites, rolling his eyes.

“Such as?” He asks, putting on his slightly-more-interested-than-usual face. Cas finally sets down his book, looking up at the brothers.

“Well.” He glances at Dean, as if to give him a chance to explain, but barrels forward at the last second, spilling it all.

“That was when Michael and Anna had a friendly shouting match over who got to take Dean out for a date the next weekend,” he says smugly, tugging at a spare thread on the edge of his sleeve.

Sam snorts, shooting Dean a conspiratorial look. He waves a hand, scoffing.

“C’mon, Cas,” he says, reaching over to ruffle his hair. “You know they were teasing.”

Cas shoves his hand away, a smile playing around his lips. Dean grins and sinks back into the couch as Cas stands, pulling down his shirt from where it had ridden up on his hips. Dean follows the movement.

“Anna maybe. I think Michael was only half-joking.”

Dean cautiously glances over at Sam, only to see him watching him curiously. He coughs and looks away, propping his feet up on the table in front of him.

Cas walks over to the mini-fridge they keep just beside the TV, opening the door and peering inside.

“I can’t concentrate for the life of me,” he mutters, pulling out a couple beers. “You want one, Winchester?”

Dean hums his assent and Cas tosses him one, hesitating slightly before looking up at Sam.

“And, uh, do you—“

Dean butts in.

“Sammy’s here on my rules. He’s allowed to have a little fun.”

Sam grins at him and Cas smiles back, handing him a beer. Dean continues.

“Besides, it’s not like we ever exactly cared about being legal.”

Cas snorts, twisting his own cap off. “True.”

Sam takes a small sip, licking his lips as he swallows. He seems reluctant to let the issue of the graveyard go.

He sidles over next to Cas. “So, what about these then?” He gestures at the bottles in their hands. “They go up on the shelf too?”

Dean shakes his head, as if it were obvious.

“No, dude. It’s gotta fit the theme.”

Cas laughs briefly, walking down the hall and flicking on the light to his room.

Sam displays the magnificent bitchface #347, fiddling with the label on his beer.

“So…what? You save the bottles that you like? That you think are  _pretty?_ ” He curls his lip, as if the thought of interior decoration was something disgusting, and perhaps contagious.

“Memories, Sammy. Thing’s gotta have memories.”

Sam doesn’t answer, that slight smirk of doubt still playing around his lips. Dean sighs and stands, walking over to him. He leans against the doorframe and tries to explain.

“Okay, look. You finish it, then you stick it up on top of the shelves. And then…well, the bottle is there to remind you. Hence the name—“ He spreads his arms, indicating the endless rows of glass. “The graveyard.”

He smiles at what they’ve accumulated over the years, turning to see Sammy nodding, as if he were trying to understand their strange Midwestern customs.

“Dude, just because you go to school in  _California_ —“

“That has nothing to do with it.”

“All the same. Just because you’re a big Ivy-Leaguer, doesn’t mean you can’t appreciate the beauty here.”

Sam laughs, loud and hearty. Dean tries to keep his serious face locked on, but he can feel himself smiling. He had missed his little bro.

“Okay, look.” He points. “Like there. The tequila from one of Gabe’s parties,” he explains. He scans his eyes down the row of bottles, remembering.

“Oh, and there…that bottle of wine caused a…well.” He shakes his head. “An impromptu dance party, I guess.”

Cas’s deep voice floats from the bathroom.

“You still can’t salsa, Winchester, no matter how much you try.”

Dean’s cheeks burn, and he whirls toward the direction of the hall.

“Dude.” He pounds a hand against the wall. “Not helpful.”

He only hears Cas’s bordering-on-maniacal laughter as an answer, and he grumbles, turning away from him. Sam just snorts, taking another sip from his beer.

Dean looks up again, trying to find another memory to share. He finds one particular black label. “That one…” he trails off, looking at the bottle of whiskey. “Um.” He shakes his head and quickly points again, trying to distract himself.

“There, Sammy. The bottle of champagne we had to celebrate you getting into Stanford.”

Sam’s face shows surprise and glee as he turns, looking up at the gold-foil covered bottle.

“Really?”

Dean nods, his smile sincere. “Of course.” He nudges him with his shoulder. “Always knew you’d get in, but nothing wrong with a little celebration.”

Sam beams at him. Cas comes back from his room, bottle in hand.

“By the way, never officially congratulated you on that.” He holds out his bottle, and Sam clinks his beer with his, smiling slightly. “I know we met, like, three hours ago, but I figured I should offer my wholehearted congratulations.”

Sam laughs.

“Thanks, Cas.”

Sam beams at Cas as they toast each other, and Dean watches the two of them, a stupid grin splitting his face. His best friend and his brother getting along famously. What more could he hope for?

His gaze drifts from Sam’s broad smile to Cas’s subtler one, his eyes twinkling as he takes another sip, his lips curving perfectly around the rim of the bottle. Dean tries not to notice as his tongue darts out to catch the stray drops. He manages to tear his eyes away, only to see Sam looking at him, an unreadable expression on his face. He clears his throat and quickly looks away, turning back to the safety of the TV and the living room.

“Hey, Star Wars!”

They get distracted by  _Attack of the Clones,_ and end up bickering over exactly which is the best movie out of the six. It ends up with them eventually agreeing that the prequels were terrible, but they’re still impossibly split on the originals. Sam insists on A New Hope, whereas Dean loves Empire, and Cas resolutely hangs onto the Return of the Jedi.

So they end up drinking and marathoning the whole damn trilogy into the night, laughing and joking during the commercials, shushing each other so they can recite the dialogue along with the characters during their favorite parts. And if at one point, Cas dozes off and drifts his head onto Dean’s shoulder…well. He barely notices. C’mon.

_I’m sure Luke wasn’t on that thing when it blew._

Dean resolutely ignores the weighty feel of Cas, trying to focus on Harrison Ford’s face. Who he totally doesn’t have a crush on by the way.

_He wasn’t. I can feel it._

He tries to remember why he thought it was a good idea to dress up as Han three Halloweens in a row when he was little, and he definitely isn't thinking about Cas, and how his soft breath is on his chest, that his body is warm and pliant against his own.

_You love him, don’t you?_

Dean’s gaze drifts from the movie to the sleepyhead on his shoulder, and he smiles without realizing it. Only when Sam’s voice cuts through the distraction does he shift away from him, clearing his throat. He rouses Cas and sends him and Sam off to bed, normal as you please. No big deal.

And he definitely doesn’t check on him after Sammy’s asleep.

He  _definitely_  doesn’t shut the door to his bedroom, wanting to kiss him goodnight. 

And so he drops off to sleep, definitely not thinking of anyone else.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sublime is something you choke on after a shot of tequila.”  
> ― Mark Z. Danielewski

January

Sophomore Year

** 

“How’d your test go?”

“Well.”

Dean drops his backpack to the floor, shucking off his jacket.

“I either passed or failed spectacularly, so—“

He digs through his backpack, pulling out a glass bottle with a golden label.

“Either way, it’s a cause for getting ridiculously drunk.”

Cas shoves aside his homework, grinning.

 

**

 

“No, you.”

“Fuck, man, I’ve had like five already.”

“You are such a lightweight.”

“You say that every weekend.”

Dean is fiddling with his shirt, clumsy fingers struggling with the buttons.

“You think a mechanical engineer could understand a shirt, but _no—_ “

He finally manages it and looks over at Cas, who isn’t faring much better.

“These buttons are mocking me,” he whines, pouting at his reflection.

“Jesus, come here—“

Dean stands unsteadily, crossing over to where Cas is staring stupidly into the mirror. He pulls off the blue tie hanging loosely around Cas's neck and drapes it over his shoulder. He fixes the top few buttons of Cas’s shirt, giggling.

“Dumbass.”

“Dick.”

Cas sways a little and takes a step back. Dean grabs his arm, laughing.

“Dude. Don’t fall over on me.”

“You’re the one who insisted on tequila shots _before_ the party,” Cas pouts. “ _Before_. And Gabe’s parties are ridiculous enough to begin with.”

“Yeah, well—“ Dean pulls the tie off of his shoulder and threads it under Cas’s shirt collar, starting on the knot. “You’re the one who insists on dressing like a tax accountant every time we go out.”

Cas reaches out a hand, steadying himself on Dean’s shoulder.

“It’s respectable,” he insists, the wobble in his voice indicating anything but.

Dean pokes his side. “Respectably uptight.”

He finishes the knot and slides it up loosely, lingering at the collar as he admires his handiwork. He looks up to see Cas watching him. Those blue eyes are a little too transparent and Dean darts his gaze away, laughing slightly.

“Uh, so—“ He backs away, looking for the bottle. “Another one? Before we go?”

 

Down, up, down, shot—

Dean hisses as the alcohol burns his throat. Cas scrunches up his face.

“Oof.”

“Alright, angel. Let’s go.”

“I’m no angel.”

“Hey, you wanted _respectable._ ”

 

*

 

By the time they get to Gabriel’s house, the walk has sobered them a little, but the party is already in full swing, people grinding on each other in every conceivable position, music thumping, lights flashing. Dean nearly trips over a couple making out in a darkened corner, and Cas grabs his arm, laughing.

“Careful.”

Dean elbows him back, and they find their way to the kitchen, where they come across Gabriel, who immediately drowns them in two identical bear-hugs.

“Deeeeean,” he slurs, sweeping him under his arm. “And Cas-tee-elll.” He laughs, nearly tipping them both. “How the hell are ya!”

Dean gets out from under his arm, laughing. “I’m good, dude. Don’t knock me over.”

“No, no, no worries—“

They talk with him for a while, but it isn’t long until he ushers them over to the bar, where an assortment of beers line the counter, as well as every liquor under the sun.

“Help yourself to whatever, dudes, we’re good.”

They decide to lay off the hard stuff for a while, each grabbing a beer, settling back to watch the action.

They talk with Gabe for a while, telling him all about the past semester, including the one time they woke up with these weird rashy marks all over them and had to get their whole apartment fumigated.

Gabriel grins evilly at them, and they both freeze.

“Gabe,” Cas says evenly. “What did you do.”

He rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. “Nothing!” He insists, whining a little. He glances back and forth between them. Dean grits his teeth.

“Gabriel, I swear to god—“

“Okay, okay, fine. A little itching powder. Ok? I didn’t think you’d call the fucking exterminators, Jesus.”

Dean glares at him.

“You complete dick.”

Gabriel waggles his fingers at him.

“That’s my defining characteristic.”

He sashays away, and Dean’s left gaping after him. Cas is squinting again.

“That asshole,” he mutters.

“Wow.” Dean can barely find the words. “Just…wow.”

They stand there, frozen for a minute, clenching their beer bottles. Dean pokes his tongue in his cheek and tentatively looks up at Cas, wondering if he’s got the same idea. There’s something there, a dangerous blue glint. 

 

“Wanna go fuck with his stuff?”

Cas grins evilly.

“Hell yes.”

 

They dip out of the kitchen and head towards Gabe’s room, winding through the crowd and the twisting bodies on the dance floor. Dean almost loses him, but then Cas is grabbing his hand and pulling him up the stairs, and they make their way unsteadily up to the third bedroom on the right, giggling all the way.

They bang open the door to Gabriel’s room, Cas hysterically shushing him.

“You are so fucking loud—“

“You’re the one practically shouting, dude, shut up—“

They look around the messy room, candy wrappers and clothes scattered everywhere.

Dean digs through the chaos that is Gabriel’s desk drawer, smiling in triumph when he comes up with a small tube, trying to muffle his laughter.

“I won’t even ask why he has superglue, my god—“

They’re halfway through cementing all of Gabe’s pant legs together when they hear his loud voice on the stairway. Dean flips.

“Shit—“

Cas grabs his arm and practically throws him in the closet before flipping off the lights and crashing in after him, slamming the door closed. He falls against Dean, and Dean shoves him back, almost tripping over his own feet. They shift and push against each other, finally ending up mashed up against the wall, cursing each other under their breath.

“Dammit Cas, get off me—“

“You’re on my fuckin’ foot dude, move—“

It’s ridiculous really, they’re woozy and drunk, giggling like maniacs, with Cas trying to get him to hush as they hear the door finally open, Gabriel barging in without much warning.

A thin strip of light peeks in from under the door, lighting up Cas’s face as he succumbs to the whirl of tequila. He starts to laugh again, getting louder with every passing second.

There’s too many voices, too much, so Dean twists around, pulling Cas in and clapping a hand over his mouth.

“Shut up,” he hisses in his ear.

Cas giggles against his hand a couple more times, squirming in his arms. Dean sucks in a hard breath as Cas presses back up against him, his head sinking onto his shoulder. Cas stops laughing, his hands coming up to grab Dean’s arm, tugging away his hand. But he doesn’t let go, instead holding tight to Dean's wrist as they both try to quiet their breathing, listening for the sounds on the other side of the door.

Cas suddenly goes still. Dean tries to concentrate, tries to remember where they are, what they’re doing, _what_ they are—but Cas is against him, he’s dark and intoxicating, head tilting back against his neck. Dean can feel every muscle in his back as he breathes, and he reels as the scent of Cas’s shampoo hits his nose, mint and a little bit like ice—

Gabriel’s talking, flirting up a storm or something, and he manages to catch—

“Your chariot awaits, m’lady.”

Cas stiffens in his arms.

“Oh, you’ve got to be joking.”

He lets out the whisper before he can stop himself, and Dean glares at him, poking him in the side. Cas retaliates, spinning around so fast Dean nearly falls over. Cas digs up a knee into him, trying to be as quiet as possible, but it only causes Dean to gasp, doubling over. He reaches out, fumbling, his hands finding skin as Cas’s hands wrap around his waist.

Cas presses him back against the wall, forehead up against his.

 _Shh,_ he motions, tapping a finger to Dean’s lips.

Dean doesn’t dare move. Cas’s eyes are locked on his own, and Dean tries to hold the gaze, but he chickens out, looking down. He feels the grip around him loosen as Cas pulls his head back, but they’re still impossibly close, so infuriatingly snaked around each other. Dean is way too conscious of Cas’s hip brushing up against naked skin, where his shirt had been pushed up in their struggles in the dark of the closet, way too conscious of Cas's fingertips on the back of his neck, of the soft look of his lips in the dim light.

His head is reeling, the cloudy thick smell of the tequila still hanging on Cas’s breath, pressed up against him, a hot palm suddenly on the small of his back, another drifting to his arm.

More flirtations come from the other side of the door before they hear the bed dip, and the unmistakable sounds of some very enthusiastic kisses.

“Gabe’s got his girlfriend on the bed, fuck—“ Cas groans out, and Dean throws him a murderous stare.

“What happened to shushing?” He hisses, trying to shove him, but he only manages to slip and Cas grabs him, pushing him up against the wall.

“Are you fucking kidding me—“ He rumbles out, and _fuck—_ that voice should be illegal, because it was making Dean think of all sorts of dirty, dark twisted things, like tongues and heat and that voice cementing it all together.

“I’m not gonna stay in here and hear my cousin get it on,” Cas growls, and Dean feels all of his doubt fade away, everything in his soul concentrated on the impossibility in front of him.

 

Dean’s skin is burning, his heart is reckless, and all straight thinking is completely out the window.

“Why, Castiel,” he murmurs, rolling his hips slightly. “Isn’t it turning you on?”

Cas rolls his eyes at the use of his full name, dipping his head closer.

“Shut up.” 

“Make me.”

 

Those blue eyes turn on him, impossibly bright, ridiculously perfect, and Dean forgets everything.

Cas is staring at him, and Dean can’t move. No, that couldn’t be Cas’s hand on the back of his neck, his sweet breath curling against his cheek—

And Dean definitely wasn’t brushing away the hair from Cas’s eyes. They were absolutely not pressed up against the wall of a dark cramped closet, panting and staring into each other’s eyes like this was some fucking movie. They weren’t.

Cas’s hips press up against his own, his lips are so close…

The outside door bangs open again, and they jerk apart, breathing hard. They hear Kali and Gabriel’s indignant squeals as they shoo out whoever interrupted them, and Dean and Cas stand frozen until all the sounds die away, the light flicking out again, plunging them into darkness.

Dean can only hear Cas’s slowing breaths in the darkness. There’s something like electricity burning in his veins, it couldn’t be blood, because he was burning up, he was on fire—

“We should get out of here before they come back,” Cas whispers, and before Dean knows it, Cas is slipping out of their twisted up embrace and halfway across the room, pulling open the door and dipping into the hallway. Dean follows him, hoping desperately that the flush in his cheeks was draining away.

Cas doesn’t say anything, Dean doesn’t say anything, even if he wants to, to ask him what the hell just happened.

They spy Kali and Gabriel in the kitchen again and trade conspiratorial glances, and even end up dancing a little, Dean pulled into a grinding session with Bela Talbot as Meg not so discreetly tries to get Cas to walk her home.

Dean looks over to see Meg tug at Cas’s tie, the one he had so painstakingly fixed earlier, and then—

Meg kisses him, and Cas looks surprised at first, but then he fucking responds, spinning her around and pinning her against the wall, and Dean nearly falls over.

“Dean?”

Bela’s thin voice pierces his ears, but he shakes her off with some excuse, running off into the bathroom. He had seen enough to get—

Shit.

 

He had never seen Cas hook up with a chick before. He knew he had, fuck, they pretty much told each other everything, but actually seeing it—

He suddenly feels sick.

 

Dean emerges nearly half an hour later, and Cas finds him in seconds.

“Hey, where were you?”

“Why do you care,” he mumbles, and Cas narrows his eyes.

“What?”

“Nothing. Fuck. What?”

Cas taps his forehead.

“Dean, what’s up? Are you okay?”

Dean straightens his spine, trying to look as sober as possible, but he doesn’t really succeed, seeing as he takes a step backward and bumps into the table behind him, awkwardly stumbling. Cas reaches out his hands.

“Dude—“

“I’m okay, Jesus—“ Dean tries to move away. “Don’t fucking baby me.”

Dean’s legs wobble and he sinks, but Cas grabs his waist, holding him up.

“Whoa. Easy there, cowboy.”

Dean surfaces long enough to fix his eyes on the loosened blue tie, and he huffs.

_Fuckin’ Meg_

“Lemme—“

He flings out a clumsy hand, but only hits Cas’s neck, and he anchors himself on that square of exposed flesh, unconsciously stroking it as he makes his way to his intended destination.

He struggles with equally clumsy fingers to fix the tie—because that was his job wasn’t it?—But when he fails, he sighs, looking up. Cas is staring at him again. Shit, why did he always do that?

“Let’s go home, Dean.” Cas murmurs. Dean just nods. He can’t say anything else.

 

They finally leave the party at nearly three in the morning, Cas supporting him as they stumble back home.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Get up and dance, get up and smile, get up and drink to the days that are gone in the shortest while."  
> -Simon Fowler

September

Freshman Year

 

**

 

Dean wasn’t even supposed to _be_ in philosophy.

He didn’t want to take it, he didn’t care too much about all that crap. He had his life, and he lived it, and he didn’t need to examine his position on earth and what it all meant or whatever. All he needed to do was get his degree so he could stop fixing engines and start designing them.

But thank you, Kansas University, for imposing general education requirements, meaning that Dean finds himself in a lecture with about a hundred other freshmen, at the godforsaken hour of 8:30 in the morning. Philosophy was heavy at any time of the day, but before ten a.m.? Nightmare.

 

He hated the class with a vengeance, until about the third week, when they started on free will versus determinism. Dean took notes, but he couldn’t help but roll his eyes. He was his own man. He liked to think he had his own choice. Destiny, fate, god…all that crap freaked him out a little, to be honest.

But when the dark-haired crazy nerd type in the front row raised his hand and completely backhanded the professor on his description of solipsism, Dean’s interest perked a little.

Okay, maybe a lot.

The kid was _smart._ Dean spent most of that class hoping he would raise his hand to give his opinion, which he often did. He could tell the professor struggled with his determination to hate him, but he couldn’t, not really, not someone who articulated his thoughts so genuinely and clearly, especially in a class most kids slept through.

So Dean found himself migrating towards the front row with every passing class, until one day, he was sitting right behind him.

Dean had gotten there a couple minutes early, watching as the guy settles into his seat, pulling out a notebook and pencil. Dean surreptitiously gives him the once over—the messy hair, the ring in the upper part of his ear, the impeccably folded button down, all the way to the long-fingered hands that were fiddling for a new page. Dean watches in earnest, trying not to look like he was stalking the guy while basically stalking the guy.

He flips his notebook open to a blank page, but not before Dean catches a glimpse of a dark sketches, a whole page of different patterns and symbols. He cracks his knuckles and starts writing across the page in a smooth, flowing script.

_James Castiel Novak_

Dean frowns. What kind of person wrote his entire name out? In his own notebook, no less. Dean bites down on his pen. He desperately wanted to know.

*

So he finally got his head out of his ass and cornered the kid one day.

“Hey.”

The boy with the dark hair raises his eyes just long enough to take in the mess in front of him, before they drop back down to his bag, where he was shoving books into the front pocket.

“Hello.”

Dean fidgets. He had woken up late that morning and barely skidded into class on time, so of course today was the day he was a reckless idiot and said hi to the kid he had been drooling over the past month. Not that he had a crush. He didn’t. More like a…dude-crush. Dean just wanted to get to know him. Right. He just seemed so cool. Not that Dean wasn’t into guys. And he guesses he’s kinda cute. And—

Fuck. Focus, Winchester.

“So, um. I just—“

Dean fumbles, tripping over his words. Jesus, fuck—why now? Why did his brain choose now to shut down?

“I’m in your philosophy class and I just wanted to say you got some really good arguments, I’m always in awe whenever you speak up in class and I’m pretty sure Professor Henriksen wants to hate you but he can’t ‘cause you’re too damn smart and I—“

Dean breaks off, because the boy’s staring at him in a sort of bewildered amusement.

_Fuck._

“Sorry, man. I guess I kinda go geek sometimes.”

The guy shrugs, smiling a little.

“It’s okay,” he rumbles, and shit—what a voice.

He sticks out a hand.

“My name’s Castiel.”

 _I know,_ Dean wants to say. _I know ‘cause I’m a creepy fuck and I saw you writing that in your notebook—_

“Dean,” he says instead, taking his hand. They let go after a brief moment, and Dean shifts uncomfortably. He’s not sure what to say.

Castiel finishes packing up his bag and slings it over his shoulder. He seems to take pity on him, and he throws out a lifeline.

“Are you walking towards the Art and Design Building? I’ve got a class there now.”

Dean floods with relief. “Yes—actually I live in Lewis.”

“Really? My cousin lives in Lewis.”

“Oh. Cool.” Dean says lamely.

 

They walk out into the crisp autumn air, and Dean sticks his hands in his pockets.

“So, that lecture today?” He sneaks a sideways glance at the mystery walking next to him. “You some sort of fatalist?”

Castiel laughs. “I suppose so.” He thinks for a minute. “I guess I find a sort of comfort in things being inevitable. That we have a predetermined path. Because then nothing’s really our fault, is it?” He asks, eyes twinkling as he fixes him with that stare. Dean’s stomach flips. _Jesus Christ._

“But that doesn’t bug you?”

Dean can’t help himself. He’s never had the chance to have this sort of conversation before, not really. Sammy was smart, sure, but Dean didn’t exactly engage him in debates concerning the eternal enigmas of the universe. But here, at college—

“I mean honestly…Destiny? Some sort of larger plan? I’ve never believed in it myself. Seems a little too good to be true.” He hikes his backpack up further on his shoulder. “And I’m not exactly comfortable with the idea that I don’t have any control over what I do.”

Dean had no idea why he was saying all these things, basically fucking spilling his soul to a guy he barely knew, but Castiel was just…shit. Dean doesn't know. He just had one of those faces. He was so unbelievably easy to talk to, and Dean just found himself babbling in a way he barely ever did except with his closest friends.

“I think most people aren’t. We’re taught that being human means making your own choices, especially here in America.”

Dean chuckles. “Wow, that wasn’t condescending at all.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “The world doesn’t revolve around the United States, as much as we’d like to believe it does.”

Dean looks at him sideways. “Why, where are you from?” He sounded normal. No accent or anything.

Castiel smirks. “Illinois. Technically. But I’ve lived all over. My dad’s job had him going practically all over the world.”

“Oh, wow.”

Dean wants desperately to pursue that topic, but the whole philosophy issue was bugging him. He had never even been out the Midwest, not really, even though Dad could never hold down a steady job. Dean was pretty sure he had been in at least every motel from Arkansas to Michigan at least once, Sammy tagging along after him like a caboose. For some reason he wanted to tell Castiel that. Tell him about his shitty childhood, and see what his reaction would be.

But he doesn't. Instead Dean drags him back into a heated discussion over Nietzsche and nihilism and shit until they finally come to a halt, shooting points back and forth, talking animatedly underneath the fading summer sun.

 

Castiel hooks a thumb underneath the strap on his shoulder, tugging at his ear.

“But that sounds—I dunno. Maybe...maybe we have our own fate that is inevitable, but we have the individual choices that can take us there, you know?”

Dean frowns, thinking.

“Even that sounds pretty crappy.”

Castiel laughs.

“To some, I guess.”

“Why do you like it so much, then?”

Castiel toes a crack in the sidewalk, thinking.

“Well, then we do have some choice. But then there is some larger power, something guiding us to our destiny, what we’re best suited for. It’s just a manner of how we get there.”

Dean raises an eyebrow.

“What, like God?”

Castiel shrugs.

“Some like to call it that.”

“Yeah, God.” Dean rolls his eyes. “Sure,” he snorts, instantly regretting it. He looks up guiltily to see those blue eyes on him.

Oh crap. Really, _really_  blue.

“You don’t believe in God?” He asks, head tilting to the side.

“No,” Dean responds automatically. “Why, do you?”

He winces internally.

 _Dammit, Dean. You and your stupid mouth_.

Castiel is quiet for a moment, like he’s mulling it over.

“I believe in something,” he murmurs after a brief pause. “Just not sure what it is yet.”

 

Dean stares at him. Castiel looks up to meet his eyes, and they’re frozen for a moment. Dean’s brain whirls.

_Say something say something saysomethingjesusfuck—_

“Well, I, uh…I have to get to class.”

Dean didn’t even realize they had reached the building. In fact, he’s pretty sure they’ve just been standing here, arguing over philosophy for the past five minutes.

“Oh, right.”

Castiel smiles shyly.

“Well, I’ll, uh—I’ll see you around, Dean.”

And with that, he disappears up the steps, leaving Dean rooted to the spot on the sidewalk.

He takes a deep breath.

Holy _shit._

 

*

 

But then class rolled around again.

They didn’t sit together. They didn't, even though that’s what Dean had kind of been secretly hoping for. They smiled at each other in the hallway, waved maybe once or twice, but they didn’t _talk._ And Dean was left smacking himself, because he’s sure he's scared him away for good. Castiel is probably doing all he can to avoid the weird kid in his philosophy class who had accosted him one afternoon, babbling about atheism and determinism, and now, _of course_ he would turn tail and run from Dean every chance he could get.

He doodles in his notebook, gaze fixed on the back of Castiel’s head as he raises his hand to make another point, his deep voice echoing across the lecture hall.

 

*

 

So when Dean’s roommate turned out to be Castiel’s cousin, Dean silently thanked the god he didn’t believe in.

He had walked into his dorm room one afternoon after class, ready to collapse on his bed, but it turned out there was already someone sitting on it.

A Castiel-shaped someone.

“Cas?” He had stuttered out, immediately regretting it. That’s what he had been calling him in his head for weeks, but of course he didn’t need to fucking know that.

But Cas had just smiled.

“Hello, Dean.”

Gabriel looks back and forth between them.

“Whoa, whoa. How do you know each other?”

“Um—“ Dean had mumbled, trying to remember words. But of course Cas had rescued him. Impossibly composed Cas, who always knew what to say.

“We’re in philosophy together.”

“Philosophy?” Gabriel raises an eyebrow. “Engineering adding a new minor, or something?”

Dean rolls his eyes. "Shut up.”

 

Cas makes as if to get up.

“Sorry, Gabe said you had class, so it wouldn’t matter if I just chilled here—“

“No, it’s fine.” Dean says, maybe a little too quickly. “Got canceled today.”

He was having a little trouble speaking, because Cas was being way too fucking distracting. He was curled up on his bed, on his fucking bed—lounging in sweatpants and a ratty t-shirt with a faded Led Zeppelin logo, and shit—when did Cas literally become the most intriguing person on the planet? Because it’s not like Dean’s been tracking their interactions or anything, or how he only looks forward to Tuesdays and Thursdays because that’s when he’s got his philosophy class—

“So, you’re an engineer?”

Cas breaks him out of his scramble of thoughts, and Dean replies enthusiastically, trying to understand how his boring-ass Friday had suddenly turned into the best day of his life. Gabe is hunched over his phone, probably texting his girlfriend. He seems to welcome the distraction, so he doesn’t have to entertain Cas for the entire afternoon.

Dean slides next to Cas on his bed and they just talk for a while, and Dean manages to not make a complete fool of himself, even though Cas is being...well. Cas is being _Cas_.

_Shut up, you barely even know the guy—_

Cas crosses his legs underneath him and continues to ask him about his classes and what he wants to do, and yeah, it's the same five question bullshit Dean usually gets when meeting new people ( _Where you from what's your major what do you want to do with that blah blah blah)_

But with Cas it doesn't feel like a struggle. Dean wants to tell him, and he wants Cas to tell him right back.

So he does, and Cas thinks it's cool and not dorky that he's an engineer, and he tells Dean that he himself isn't really sure what he's doing, but he likes art and philosophy, and Dean's really, _really_ trying to concentrate, but Cas isn't making it too easy on him.

Dean’s never seen him like this—Cas is all crisp button ups and ties and skinny jeans. But sweatpants are just as hot on him too.

Fuck— _no._

Dean Winchester does not have a crush.

 

*

 

And so Friday afternoon turned into a Friday night, watching Game of Thrones and arguing over who was the most badass Stark out of all of them. Somehow it turned into their ritual, hanging out in their dorm, all three of them—almost every Friday, studying, partying, even just chilling and talking through the night.

 

And Dean now had someone to sit next to in Philosophy.

And he suddenly had a new best friend.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These sections were a little bit shorter than I anticipated, so I lumped them together.  
> Enjoy!

"Not all chemicals are bad. Without chemicals such as hydrogen and oxygen, for example, there would be no way to make water, a vital ingredient in beer." 

—Dave Barry

 

*

 

Stella Artois

December

Freshman Year

 

The bottle’s tucked up in the corner, towards the back, so no one can really see it. But Dean knows it’s there, and that’s all that matters.

They were watching TV in their dorm one Thursday. Cas had brought over a six-pack, and they were chilling in the late afternoon warmth, a brief thaw in the harsh winter that had held them in its grip for the past couple of months. Gabe’s phone chirped and he walked out into the hall, talking animatedly, to one of his solar car buddies, no doubt. He loved that team.

“Last one just signed the lease!” Gabe announces excitedly as he came back into the room, and Dean looks up at him.

“What?”

Gabe’s face falls.

“Oh, shit, I totally forgot to tell you—“ He winces apologetically. “I’m living with the guys from the team next year. I hope that’s okay.”

Dean blinks. He hadn’t really thought about what he was going to do next year. He guessed he had just taken it for granted that he and Gabriel might live together again, seeing as they worked pretty well together this year. Hadn’t ripped each other’s throats out yet.

“Oh, no, it’s fine—“ He starts tugging at the label of his beer. “I didn’t expect us to—“

No, that was a bad way to put it.

“You’re not promised to me, dude,” he jokes. “I’ll find something. But I expect a lot of kickass party invites,” he says, pointing an accusing finger.

Gabriel beams. “You got it.”

He disappears into the hallway again to call his mom or whatever, and Dean turns back to the TV. Even Dr. Sexy can’t cheer him up right now. He has a strange sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, even though he knows it’s completely ridiculous. Whatever. He could just live in the dorms again.

“Hey, Dean?”

“Yeah?”

Dean takes another sip as he turns to Cas, who’s sitting at the other edge of the couch, legs curled up underneath him.

“You want to live with me?”

Dean chokes on his beer.

“Wh-what?”

Cas laughs. “Is that really such a horrible idea?”

Dean backtracks.

“No, no, I—“

He wipes the couple drops he’s spilled on his shirt.

“Just didn’t expect you to want to live with me.”

Cas tilts his head. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Dean shrugs, even though his heart is pounding. “I dunno. I’m annoying.”

Cas’s eyes twinkle.

“True,” he teases.

Dean ignores him, and he plows on. “I’m messy,” he blurts. “I sing too loud in the shower. Can’t load a dishwasher to save my life.” He doesn’t know why he’s saying all this stuff, because he thinks living with Cas would be fucking awesome. Probably because he’s a ridiculous fucking coward.

“Well, luckily I have extremely good dishwashing skills, so I think we can work something out.”

Dean looks over at him again. He’s smiling, and something in Dean’s gut twists.

_Yeah. Yeah, Cas. I’d love to._

He smiles back.

“Cool. Um—yeah, I mean…yeah. Let’s do it.”

Castiel nods.

“Cool,” he echoes. “We can start looking at apartments tomorrow?”

Dean’s heart is doing somersaults. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

 

And maybe it’s childish, but he saves the bottle.

 

*

 

"What contemptible scoundrel has stolen the cork to my lunch?" 

—W.C. Fields 

 

Cabernet Sauvignon

November

Senior Year

 

“Dude, really?”

Cas rolls his eyes.

“You can’t survive off hard liquor. Your liver’s gonna shut down.”

“But wine? Seriously?”

“Wine is a completely respectable form of getting wasted. Goes down easier too.”

“Says you.”

“Dean, I’m trying to expand your horizons. You could at least _try._ ”

Dean groans exaggeratedly and walks over to the counter, digging in the drawers for a corkscrew.

“Fine. But I pick the music.”

Cas acquiesces. “Deal.”

They finally get the bottle uncorked, after much bickering and laughing on Cas’s part. But eventually, despite Dean’s less than sub-par screwing skills, (And there is totally _not_ a joke in there somewhere—) they get the red liquid flowing.

“Okay, Guns n’ Roses, or…”

“Mozart,” Cas suggests unhelpfully.

“Fuck you, Amadeus. We’re doing classic rock.”

“Oh, come on. You liked that movie.”

“Doesn’t mean I want to listen to opera in my free time, dude.”

Dean fiddles with his laptop, finally settling on an album.

“Shit, I haven’t listened to this in forever.”

Cas raises an eyebrow as the first chords hit the air, bathing the room in a kind of spice. Latin music just kinda did that for some reason, Dean decides. It could make anything seem sexy.

“Santana?”

Dean holds up an indignant hand.

“Hey. He’s classic rock. And he’s awesome.”

Cas laughs. “Don’t start salsa dancing on me.”

Dean huffs theatrically.

“Why not? I could be great at it, for all you know.”

“Alright then, Casanova, show me.”

“Dude, not nearly drunk enough.”

 

But apparently, almost a whole bottle of wine later is drunk enough.

“You’re hopeless at this.”

“Shut up, I’m trying to count.”

Dean knows they probably shouldn’t be doing this, because he will _never_ live this down, but fuck it—

He’s got a soft spot for Santana and he kind of wishes he could dance, which is apparently an acceptable excuse for why he’s got his hand on Cas’s waist right now, and they’re twirling around their tiny living room like it’s fucking Center Stage.

He tries to spin Cas, but they end up going the same way and crashing into each other, and Dean tries not to notice the ridiculous flutter his heart gives when Cas seizes his neck for balance.

“I think dance teachers everywhere are cringing right now.”

Dean pokes him.

“Alright, if you’re so smart, you—“

Cas doesn’t even let him finish, he pulls him around so fast his head spins, dipping him in an expert move, before pulling him in tight and stepping around again.

“Holy shit,” Dean breathes.

Cas presses up against him, an arm coming around his waist, pulling their hips together.

“Might’ve lived in Spain for a few years,” he breathes into his ear, and Dean involuntarily shivers.

“Might’ve picked up a few things.”

He spins him around again, and Dean nearly falls, laughing.

“Dude, you’re putting me to shame.”

“Not my fault you’ve got two left feet.”

They step back and forth for a minute, just holding each other. Then Dean recovers long enough to realize exactly what is going on—that they’re fucking salsa dancing in the middle of their tiny-ass living room, and Cas is way too damn attractive.

“Hmm, guess we’ll just have to practice,” he murmurs, only half joking.

“Guess so.”

The song ends and Dean’s shuffle kicks in, switching to Creedence Clearwater Revival. They kind of settle for a moment, laughing, but neither of them backs away immediately.

Dean swallows. Oh shit. This was really happening. He had a majorly gigantic crush on his best friend.

No—fuck. Not a crush.

He was in love with the idiot.

Wait. No.

This wasn’t anything. They were friends. Friends.

Friends that had been living together two years and were going to graduate next semester and—

Dean swallows.

 

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

 

Castiel blinks.

_What are we doing?_

He got lost in the music for a second, but now that he’s regained some of senses, he realizes that his hand is on Dean’s waist, and that this is bad. Really bad.

He drops his hands and turns, flustered.

“Totally forgot, I have this—thing to turn in tomorrow, and I should—“

Dean cuts him off.

“Yeah me too, I’ll—“

“I’m gonna—“

“Right—“

They both run out of the room, locking themselves in their respective bedrooms.

The empty bottle of wine sits silently on the table.

And they don’t mention it again.

  

*

 

“A fine beer may be judged with only one sip, but it’s better to be thoroughly sure.” 

—Czech Proverb

 

Blue Moon

October

Sophomore Year

 

It took a couple before Dean was brave enough to ask.

 

See, the thing is, Dean saw Cas naked for the first time last week.

Well, not completely naked—that would have been something else entirely. And Dean definitely isn’t picturing that right now, Jesus Christ—

No. Nope.

Anyway.

They had been living together for almost a month now, and they hadn’t had any mishaps. Why would they? This isn’t some old man gym where all the guys walk around with everything hanging out.

But here’s the catch.

Cas is _inked._

Dean didn’t peg him as the type, as that kinda guy, so when Cas came out of the shower, humming to himself, a towel wrapped around his waist, Dean had nearly fallen out of his chair.

He had spied him from down the hallway as he was eating breakfast, and he had been struck dumb at the sight of the dark lines in Cas’s skin. Shit.

So, because Dean Winchester is a coward who can’t articulate himself even at the best of times, he gets a little drunk.

He ropes Cas into it, just pretending they’re sharing some beers and watching a movie like they do most nights. But Dean is fidgeting anxiously.

He sits down next to him (not too close) and tries to work up the courage to ask. He looks over at Cas, whose eyes are trained on the TV.

“Hey, Cas?”

“Mm?”

Dean hesitates.

“I, uh—I gotta ask.”

Cas turns to him, raising an eyebrow.

Dean shrugs. “So, um…tattoos?”

Cas’s face melts into a smile, and he chuckles.

“So. You saw.”

Dean takes another deep pull from his bottle.

“Yeah, man. Who knew you’re a secret badass?”

Cas laughs. “They’re not that badass.”

“Sure they are.” Dean sits up. “Hell, I’ve never been brave enough to get one. And you look like you’ve been a couple times.”

Cas looks down thoughtfully, then he nods.

“Soon as I turned eighteen, I was off and running.”

“Why?”

He shrugs.

“My own kind of rebellion I guess. And I always thought it poetic. Putting something that means a lot to you on your skin, for the world to see.”

Dean swallows.

“So, do you—do you mind me asking what they’re about? What they mean?” He blurts out.

But as soon as he does he mentally cringes. Asking someone about the meaning was like asking them to bear their soul. Especially after Cas had practically just admitted that. And they had only been roommates for a goddamn month.

“No, I don’t mind.”

Cas sets down his beer, and before Dean knows it, he’s pulling off his shirt.

“Hope you don’t mind me stripping right now,” Cas jokes.

 _Nope. Don’t mind at all,_ Dean’s brain says. His mouth just laughs.

Cas shrugs off his undershirt and then there he is, bare-chested in the dim light of the TV, and he’s showing Dean his tattoos.

There’s some sort of design on his back, beautifully minimal, as well as twisting interwoven lines across his arm. He turns and shows him the script on his left hipbone, right over the sharp cut of his stomach, and Dean tries to remember how to breathe.

“So there’s the back, that was one of my first ones,” he explains. “Not really any meaning behind it, but I liked the design.” He drags a finger up his forearm. “This is a Celtic knot pattern, two, actually.” He taps the one closer to his wrist. “This one’s closed, no beginning or end, so it’s…infinity, I guess. Eternal. Then this one is open, and is supposed to signify a journey.” He laughs. “Well, according to some scholars.”

Dean laughs with him, but he’s reeling. How did he know all this stuff? Seriously, Cas’s head was like an encyclopedia. And how did Dean ever end up being friends with someone who was so damn smart?

“Then this here, it’s in Latin.” He’s finally gotten to the script on his hip, and Dean feels his cheeks burn. He coughs and rubs his neck, dragging his eyes away.

“It means, ‘nature does nothing in vain.’ It’s attributed to Aristotle, I think we might have talked about it in our class. Kind of like…Everything that happens, does so for a reason, and of necessity.”

“Wow.” Dean swallows past the dryness in his throat. Cas pulls his shirt back on, and Dean mourns the loss for a moment.

“I guess that’s how it’s always been…I get bored, and then I have to pierce or ink something, change my hair, whatever.”

“You thinking about a new one?”

“Yeah, I got a whole page in my notebook of ideas.”

Dean nods. He had seen. But of course Cas didn’t need to know that.

Cas thinks for a moment.

“Then of course, if I ever found someone, I’d get their name tattooed. In Enochian.”

“Enochian?” Dean asks, trying not to focus on Cas’s pronoun usage of _their_ and not _her_.

“Yeah, it’s one of the ancient languages. I learned it one summer, and I think it’s one of the most beautiful.”

Dean just stares at him. Cas frowns.

“What?”

“Dude. You study ancient languages, just for fun?”

Cas nods.

“Wow. You’re even a bigger nerd than Sammy.”

Cas punches him on the arm.

“Shut up, dick.”

Dean laughs, rubbing his shoulder.

 “So...if you ever found someone, huh? Didn’t take you to be a romantic.”

“Everyone’s a romantic if they try hard enough.”

“So you believe in true love? Soulmates and uh...all that jazz?”

Dean doesn’t know why he’s asking. Normally when people dropped this kind of dumbshit crap on him, he would would just nod and change the subject. But every time he found out something new about Cas, he would file it away, information to save for later. Not sure what later exactly meant, but. Well. Dean just really wants to know what makes Cas tick.

“No. I believe people can love each other, but if circumstances aren’t right, sometimes it just won’t work.”

“I thought you had the whole determinism thing going on.”

“I think love falls outside of philosophy.”

Dean swallows.

Shit. This had become a little too serious. He backtracks.

“So, what? What about me?” He jokes. “Think I’d look good with a tattoo?”

Cas tilts his head comically, pretending to think about it.

“Nah. You’re not cool enough to pull it off.”

“Fuck you.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Come quickly, I am tasting the stars!"  
> —Dom Perignon

February

Junior Year

 

Dean almost tips the couch over as he bolts up. Castiel jerks back, nearly erasing a stripe in the sketch he was working on.

He scowls up at him. “Dude.”

But Dean doesn’t seem to notice. He’s staring at his phone, and he practically trips over his own feet as he dashes toward his room. He presses it up to his ear as it rings, waving his hands and mouthing frantically at him. Castiel tries to decipher it. Dean is unbelievably giddy, practically bouncing.

 _Stanford,_ Castiel makes out, before Dean slips behind the door. He hears the ecstatic burst of noise as Sam answers and Dean spills out his congratulations. Castiel listens for a moment, a slight smile on his face.

He laughs a little, stretching as he stands.

Dean.

He had been freaking out the whole week, ever since he found out his brother had applied to Stanford and was awaiting a reply, even though he pretended he was completely fine. But Castiel knows him too well. And he’s just glad the news is good. Castiel had been secretly hoping Sam would get in too, even if he had never met the kid. But the way Dean talked about him…he knew he deserved all that and more.

And, on a more selfish note, if Sam hadn’t gotten in, dealing with a sulky Dean would have been Hell.

He tosses his notebook onto the counter, pulling open the fridge door, digging through the endless half-empty bottles of condiments and leftovers, some of which could probably be classified as science experiments at this point.

He finally finds what he’s looking for—a cheap bottle of sparkling liquid, complete with tacky gold foil and some cheesy graphic of an idyllic vineyard. Castiel looks at it for a moment before setting it down on the counter, turning back to look at the closed door behind him. He listens for a moment, but Dean’s voice is still echoing enthusiastically from his room, and Castiel decides to keep on with his work, sliding into one of the seats by the counter. He picks up his sketchbook again, wanting to see if he can get the details just right before Dean emerges from his bedroom.

It’s a tricky design, something he was turning in for one of his classes, but it had really grown on him, taking a sort of personal root as he had continued to work on it. Pretty abstract—black and white, swirls and lines.

Castiel finishes a section in pencil, frowning at the paper. It could probably be a cool tattoo. He had been itching to get back into a studio. Something on his shoulder maybe, left. He had met the owner of that one place. Perhaps he should give her a call…

He’s broken out of his thoughts by the full sound of Dean’s laughter from behind the door.

“Yeah, yeah, Sammy, I’m just so excited for you.”

Castiel smiles, idly scratching his head as he listens to the warmth in his voice.

“Okay, but—but then…yeah. Yeah. You definitely have to come visit. Oh shit, and you haven’t even met Cas yet—“

A pause.

“Yeah. Yeah, man, you’ll love him. He’s…he’s great.”

Castiel catches himself smiling idiotically again and turns away hastily, busying himself with the tracing, guiding the pen carefully over the lead lines on the white page.

He gets lost in the pattern, so focused that he doesn’t even realize Dean’s standing over his shoulder until it’s too late. He lets out a truly undignified sound of shock and his hand goes flying, streaking across the page.

“Shit, sorry—“

Castiel growls, ready to yell at him, but he looks to take in the damage first. He tilts his head.

“Huh.”

He realizes the new accidental line actually works—maybe even improves the shape of the piece. Well. Castiel is sufficiently impressed with Fate’s artistic ability.

He glances up to see Dean’s anxious face.

“Did I fuck it up, dude? I’m sorry, fuck—it’s just, you never let me see your stuff, and I dunno—“

Castiel stops him.

“No, it’s fine. Actually—“ He holds it up to the light, picturing the adjustments he’d have to make. “It’s better.”

He looks back to see Dean smiling. “Really?”

Castiel nods. He can tell Dean’s still on edge about almost fucking up his project, but he’s also anxious to share the good news. Castiel fights back a laugh.

“So…Sam?”

Dean nearly explodes, beaming with pride.

“He just got in, Cas, got the letter today, and I always knew he’d do it, but almost a full ride, holy hell—“

He continues to gush and Castiel lets him get it all out, listening patiently. When Dean stops to actually breathe, he jumps in.

“We should celebrate.”

He shoves the bottle over to him, and Dean grins. “Champagne, sweet—”

Castiel holds up a finger. “Ah. Technically, it’s sparkling wine.”

Dean pauses his moment of buzz and Zen to give him a condescending look.

“Say what now?”

Castiel laughs. “France has got a kind of…copyright on that name I guess. They don’t allow anyone else to use it.”

Dean snorts. “Well, isn't that fucking pretentious.”

Castiel ignores him. “And this definitely isn’t from France. This is some cheap shit I found at the corner liquor store.”

Dean grabs a ragged dishcloth from the drawer.

“Just help me with the champagne, dude.”

“Sparkling wine.”

“Are you gonna help me open the damn thing, or not?”

Castiel responds with an impeccably timed eye roll and grabs the bottle from him. They struggle with it for a while, Dean making unhelpful suggestions and Castiel wincing as he anticipates the explosion that was sure to follow. He eventually gets it, popping the cork incorrectly and spraying a good third of it all over their pants. They both collapse into laughter, until Dean manages to recover himself long enough to dig out two glasses and pour them each a good amount.

“So, here’s to Sam, who’s gonna become a big hotshot lawyer!”

They clink their glasses, but seeing as they’re only plastic, they only make a sort of pitiful _tick_ sound. They drink it anyway, continuing to find new things to toast as they get tipsier and tipsier.

“Here’s to…”

“Our shitty landlords.”

“Fuck that.”

“Well then, I dunno man—“

“That new hot girl who works at the gym.”

“Wow. Really?”

“Okay, fine. To—“

“To alcohol?”

“To alcohol.”

They somehow find their way over to the couch, laughing over stupid shit. Castiel loses track of time as the ‘champagne’ sinks in his stomach, making everything all warm and light. Dean fills up his glass again, lifting it high.

“To Sam, who will be the successful one!”

Castiel frowns a little.

“What are you talking about, dude?” He tries to laugh about it, but he’s really trying to be serious. “Engineering isn’t exactly looked down upon.”

Dean snorts. “Just because you’re getting your liberal arts degree—“

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Don’t start that. We both create things. Your designs will just happen to make more money.”

He laughs somewhat bitterly into his own cup, finally looking up. Dean is staring at him, an unreadable expression on his face.

Castiel shifts. “What?”

Dean looks at him exasperatedly.

“Don’t sell yourself short.” He gestures at Castiel’s abandoned sketchbook. “You’re good, man!”

Castiel tries to wave off the compliment. “You don’t know that—“

Dean drops down next to him on the couch, and Castiel shrinks away a little. He should not be that close, whoa—

“Well, I would, if you’d ever let me see your stuff.”

He snatches the book off the table and brandishes it at him. “C’mon.”

Castiel takes it from his hands, but hesitates, not really sure. He didn’t like showing other people his work. To people who could judge him. People who were too close.

He never let Dean look at his drawings.

“Please, Cas.”

Castiel looks up into those green eyes, and he swallows heavily.

“Um.”

He looks away.

“Fine.”

 

He spreads some of his favorites out, his stomach knotted in fear. He leans back, twisting his fingers as he waits for his reaction. Dean doesn’t say anything, just touches a corner of one of the pages, brow furrowed. Castiel stammers.

“This is my earlier stuff, so I dunno, I don’t know if you—“

“Wow,” Dean breathes. Castiel stops.

“What?”

Dean nods enthusiastically. “These are great.”

Castiel clenches a fist. “Really?”

“Yeah, really. You got any more?”

Castiel obliges, turning through the pages, pointing out the details, telling him how it took him forever to get the shading just right on that one, how this one practically drove him up the wall before he deemed it acceptable.

He brushes his hands over one of the smaller patterns.

“Been thinking about getting this one. As a tattoo I mean. Maybe.” He shrugs.

“You ever—“

Dean stops, pressing a hand to his lips.

“You ever think about doing this? Like yourself?”

Castiel holds his breath.

“What?”

“I mean it, dude—“

Dean’s gesturing wildly.

“You could totally be an artist! Be that cool guy in the parlor everyone’s begging to have an appointment with—“

Castiel’s cheeks burn. “Dean, come on.”

Dean scoots closer, his jaw set.

“I’m serious.”

“Don’t know if my dad would be on board with that,” Castiel mumbles, chuckling darkly. “Well.” He shrugs. “He’ll have to notice me first, then he’ll be pissed.”

“Screw him.”

Castiel looks up. Dean is furious.

“Seriously, Cas. That was the one thing that took me a hell of a long time to figure out. My dad…my dad was a washed up old drunk, and I didn’t want him telling me how to live my life. You do what you want, Cas.”

Dean has become agitated, he’s practically jumping up and down on the couch. He’s so worked up about this, he just cares so damn much. It’s terrifying, and beautiful.

“No…” Castiel tries to pass it off as a joke. "Everything’s all set for me, remember? Predetermined path.”

“And what if the wrong people are setting it? Come on! How do you know rebelling isn’t part of your stupid plan?”

Dean flaps his hands as he speaks, face turning red.

“And then, if it really isn’t, the universe will fuck itself back up to get you into place, right?”

“That’s what I’m afraid of!"

“Why?”

“I don’t want to get hurt!”

“Okay, well, we’ve established what you don’t want, so how about what you do want?”

Castiel throws up his hands in frustration.

“I don’t know.”

 

Castiel didn’t know. He really didn’t. He took philosophy, and art, because he was interested in them, but he really didn’t have a plan. All he knew was what had been expected of him.

Get good grades. Find a college. Find a job. Find a wife.

He had always hated the idea, but never really seen another option. It was what he was supposed to do.

But then there was Dean.

Dean screaming at him, asking him what he wanted. What he feels. What he is.

Dean telling him to fuck it all.

“Seriously, what do you want?”

“ _I don’t know_ —“

“Bullshit, Cas! Everyone wants something.”

“Not me, I don’t need anything, I can just—“

“WHAT DO YOU WANT?” Dean shouts.  
“ _I want to be free_!” Castiel yells back.

Dean seems amazed by his sudden force and they both fall silent.

 

“Damn,” he mutters eventually.

 

Castiel takes a deep breath, holding it momentarily. “I’m sorry.”

Dean shrugs. “Don’t be.” He scratches his cheek, suddenly embarrassed. “I shouldn’t have—I dunno.”

Castiel closes his eyes, trying to calm his heart. The confession that Dean ripped from him is terrifying, terrifying, but true. He knows instinctively that it is, and that scares him to death. Scares and elates him.

He’s not really sure why he does it, but all of the sudden Dean is in his arms and he’s hugging him and Dean is hugging him back.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. He can feel the movement in Dean’s throat as he swallows.

 

“Yeah, Cas.” He squeezes him reassuringly. “Of course.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Love makes the world go round? Not at all. Whiskey makes it go round twice as fast.” 

―Compton Mackenzie[  
](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/57182.Compton_Mackenzie)

 

March

Senior Year

 

Spring Break. Normally Dean would be all for it, but tickets are damn expensive to anywhere and Sammy is going to Stanford, after all. He announced his plans to stay on campus over the break, and to his surprise, Cas readily agreed to stay too.

“You sure?”

Cas rolls his eyes.

“Where am I gonna go? Panama City Beach?”

Dean has a sudden vision, of Cas, sitting on the beach, tattoos shining in the sun, resolutely ignoring all the bikini-wearing girls that walk past, because he’s got his nose buried in some book.

He smiles. “Yeah. Don’t think I can see you enjoying yourself there.”

Cas huffs as he lies back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Dean’s sitting at the desk, absently poking a couple discarded shirts with his toe.

Cas speaks after a moment.

“We should try and do something though. I think Balthazar’s sticking around, and Crowley too.”

Dean wrinkles his nose. “You’re a pretty poor excuse for an American, Cas.”

Cas snorts. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that,” he drawls, mimicking the heavier Kansas accent that accosted their ears every day.

“Balthazar,” Dean repeats. The guy was fun enough, sure. But he could be kind of a flighty bastard. Crowley was just a dick.

But Cas needles him, and they eventually invite them over. Ruby and Jo come over too, and they have a grand old time, playing X-Box, going shot for shot with Balthazar until Dean can’t count his own fingers.

They shove them out the door at about four a.m., and Dean looks around blearily. Cas is already asleep, and Dean looks at him for a minute before wandering down to his own room, stumbling against the wall.

He’s in bed for about ten minutes until he feels the urge to throw up, and he finds himself heaving over the toilet bowl.

 

The light flicks on.

“Dean?”

Cas’s voice is heavy with sleep, and probably whiskey too, but it obviously hadn’t gotten to him in quite the way Dean’s had.

Dean groans.

“’M fine. Go back to sleep.”

“Jesus.”

Cas doesn’t leave, but goes to fill up a glass of water and get the aspirin, coming back and setting them on the floor by the toilet. And to Dean’s further surprise, he clumsily plops down next to him, sitting cross-legged by the door.

He pulls his head out of the toilet long enough to see Cas, one elbow propped up on his knee as he watches him.

Cas tilts his head thoughtfully.

“You know, you’re kinda like a newborn baby. Crying, puking all over the place—“

“I am not crying—“ Dean snarls before he retches again. He leans against the porcelain and groans.

“Ugh.”

Cas pats him on the back. “Get it out, Winchester. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

“I hate you.”

“I know.”

Dean finally pulls his head out of the bowl and accepts the water and pills, and fucking Cas is right. He does feel a little bit better. Still woozy though. Cas helps him up, and Dean slips a little.

“Whoa.”

“Okay, c’mere—“

Cas hauls him into his room and pushes him down on the bed.

Dean halfheartedly tries to resist.

“I can sleep in my own goddamn bed—“

“I’m not letting you choke on your vomit in your sleep,” Cas says matter-of-factly, and Dean wonders how he can make such a gross sentence sound so sexy. Cas sets a water bottle by his head, then crawls in next to him, pushing him over so he’s on his side.

“Just go to sleep, you big baby.”

Dean wants to protest, but fuck—Cas’s bed is really soft, and Cas’s pillow is really soft, and Cas is really soft—

Wait. What.

No, he’s not imagining that. Cas has pulled the sheets up around them, and is curled up next to him, his body a soft shell for his own. Dean’s throat constricts.

“Baby,” Cas murmurs again, his breath soft on the back of Dean’s neck. He shivers.

And maybe because he’s drunk, maybe because he’s tired and delirious and it’s almost five in the morning—but Dean grabs Cas’s hands and pulls them in around himself, nearly melting when Cas hums in response and wraps his arms around him, legs tangling together, his cheek pressing against the line of his shoulder.

Dean closes his eyes and sinks as Cas’s chest moves against his own, his heartbeat a steady pull, lulling them down into sleep.

 

“Jesus, Cas,” he murmurs sleepily. “Where would I be without you?”

“In your own goddamn bed,” comes the whispered reply, and before Dean can laugh, he slips off to sleep, with Cas’s arms around him.

 

*

 

“The secret to a long life is to stay busy, get plenty of exercise, and don’t drink too much. Then again, don’t drink too little.”

—Hermann Smith-Johannson

 

May

Sophomore Year

 

It’s one of the warmer days, and Castiel slips on one of his ragged t-shirts to enjoy the sun as he walks through campus. He gets some looks as he walks down the street, probably because he had been sick for the past week and looked like death, and a grimy-looking kid with tattoos and sweatpants and bags under his eyes didn’t exactly inspire confidence in passersby. He dips into one of the coffee shops, grumpy that they had run out earlier that week. He had _told_ Dean to go grocery shopping, but of course he forgot.

He orders and sits down with his cup, just black today. He pulls out one of his textbooks, intending to at least try and catch up on his readings. His nose drips. Gross.

He tries to concentrate on the words in front of him, but he starts slipping, daydreaming and staring off into space. A playful voice snaps him out of it.

“Cool tattoos.”

Castiel looks up to take in the sight of a woman standing, her own cup in her hand.

“Um, thanks.”

She’s got some too, they clash beautifully with her fiery hair.

“Mind if I sit? Sorry—it’s just ridiculously crowded and, I mean, why not, I always like meeting new people.”

“Uh—“ He blinks a few times, trying to process the wave of information. He tries to clear some space. “Sure.”

She sits, slinging her bag over the edge of the chair. “This isn’t totally overstepping my bounds is it? I’m not interrupting anything important?” She gestures towards his abandoned textbook.

He snorts. “Oh no. I think my attention span evaporated half an hour ago.”

They talk for a bit, and even though Castiel usually hates talking to strangers he was most likely never going to see again, he finds himself entranced by the bubbly, bouncing mess across from him.

“I hope I didn’t make you feel weird—I usually hate when people ask about mine, but that’s a beautiful pattern.”

He rubs his forearm. “Thanks.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“Oh. Not here. Back in my hometown, in Illinois.”

She leans back in her seat. “Hoo, that’s a relief. Didn’t want to hear I got competition.”

Castiel frowns. “You?”

She nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, I own the place over on 3rd, you ever been in?”

“No, but I’ve seen it before. Actually, I've been meaning to check it out.”

Castiel’s surprised. She looks kind of young to have her own business, but then again, what did he know?

“Yeah? You thinking about a new one?”

He shrugs. “Tossing around ideas. Got a couple in my sketchbook.”

“Really?” She leans forward. “Can I see them? Is that okay?”

Castiel doesn’t even think about hesitating. Friends were one thing, but a nice stranger who wasn’t about to judge him—hell, she actually had her own damn parlor—he can barely yank them out of his bag fast enough.

“This is some stuff I’ve been working on, thought it’d be pretty easy to adapt one.”

He turns through the pages, and she practically gushes over them, enough to make Castiel go red, visibly pleased.

They continue to pore over the pages, but she eventually looks at her watch and doubletakes.

“Shit, sorry—I gotta be somewhere in like 5 minutes—“

She grabs her bag and almost stands, but then smacks her forehead.

“And I didn’t even introduce myself. How rude.” She sticks out a hand. “Charlie.”

He takes it.

“Castiel.”

“Castiel,” she repeats. “Okay. The cute and funny kid with the cool ink.” She smiles.

Castiel shifts and looks away uncomfortably. “Sorry,” he stammers. “I…um…”

Her cheeks go red and she holds up a hand.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry, I didn’t—“ She stops. “I’m sorry. I’m just flirty all the time. It’s a problem. I actually have someone, and didn’t even—” She cuts off, trying to backtrack. “What about you? You have a…a boyfriend?”

Castiel doesn’t even try to ask how she knows, but perhaps the worst thing is how much he wishes he could say yes.

“He’s not my…boyfriend, but I…” He doesn’t even try to finish the sentence. She nods sympathetically.

“I totally understand and I won’t keep asking about it and I am now _completely_ mortified.” She digs in her bag. “Enough to give you my card—“

She hands him a neat green card, emblazoned with her name, and the name of that parlor over on the south side of town.

“You can come in anytime you want, especially if you want a new piece done.” She pats him on the shoulder.

“You give me a call, okay?”

And she dips out with a wave of fingers, the bell on the door tinkling in her wake.

 

Castiel curls his fingers around the card and shoves it into his wallet.

 

He really wants to go in, but never works up the courage.

 

*

 

Whiskey

Part II

 

Dean opens his eyes and immediately regrets it.

“Ugh.”

With that articulate statement, he closes his eyes again, shutting out the brightness. His whole brain hurts, like someone had worked him over with a sledgehammer inside his skull.

His mouth feels like the fuckin' Sahara desert.

Water.

Waaaaaater.

 

He attempts to roll over, in search of a Gatorade or something, but a pair of arms stops him, and he freezes.

What.

Dean blinks stupidly, memories from last night stubbornly sliding into place as he takes in a dark knot of bedhead next to him, Cas’s sleep-soothed face inches from his own.

No, really. What.

He blinks a couple more times, as if that would help. Cas shifts a little and Dean looks down, seeing Cas’s fingers twined with his own.

He’s holding his damn _hand._

 

Dean keels over backward and falls gracelessly to the floor. Cas bolts upright.

“Whazzit?” He says intelligently.

Dean flails in the tangle of blankets he managed to drag down with him.

“Cas,” he chokes out. Cas finally fixes on him, rubbing his eyes.

“Well. Good morning to you too.” He flops over onto his stomach, arm dangling over the edge of the bed. “You okay?”

Dean ignores his question and asks one of his own.

“What…um…what happened?”

Cas laughs and stretches, burying his face in the mattress. “You puked your guts out, lightweight.”

Dean stands, bunching up the blanket in his hands. Since when did Cas sleep in just his boxers and a thin t-shirt and holy crap holy crap he is freaking out.

He unceremoniously dumps the blanket on top of Cas and backs away.

“Imgonnatakeashower,” he blurts, practically running out of the room.

 

Dean purposefully avoids him for the rest of the day, but if Cas notices, he doesn’t say anything.

 

*

 

"There is a Rum for everyone, but they don't know it......yet"  
—Erik Voskamp

 

July

Summer after Junior Year

 

“Caaaaaaaas.”

Castiel blinks a little as he sits up, turning on the light beside his bed.

“Dean?”

“What’s up, man? Haven’t talked to you in like, forever—“

Castiel laughs, rubbing his eyes.

“So you thought you’d call me at three in the morning?”

“No way, dude, it’s not _that_ late—“

A pause as he remembers.

“Oh shit. Time zones.”

Castiel snorts. “Yeah, dipshit, California’s on Pacific time.”

“Fuck, I mean—well. Sorry. I can let you sleep—“

“No, no, it’s fine—“ Castiel answers quickly. “I’m already up.”

He throws back the covers from his bed, stretching. “How’s your trip? How’s Sam?”

“Still got a stick up his ass, but I’m trying to loosen it a little. He’s discovering how much he likes Captain Morgan.” He snorts. “Oh wait, here—“

A muffled scramble, a couple muttered curses and suddenly Dean’s explosion of intoxicated laughter.

“Here, here—“

“Um, hi?”

A new voice, which Castiel can only assume is Sam.

“What’s up?” Castiel replies.

Before he can answer, the phone gets yanked away.

“He’s _my_ friend.”

“You gave me the phone, jerk—“

Castiel can hear Sam’s muffled protests and Dean telling him to go flirt with the girl he’s been crushing on all night.

“ _Dean,_ Christ, stop—“

“You’re the one who wouldn’t shut up about her, go on—“

Castiel waits patiently, trying not to laugh. Dean comes back on the line.

“Been talking about this girl Jess literally forever, like _come on_ —“

He sniggers. “Gonna get that kid laid if it kills me.”

He continues to tell him about the trip, how Sam’s orientation is going, all the stuff they’ve seen.

“Even went to the beach, and I shit you not, coldest frikkin’ body of water I’ve ever set foot in—“

Castiel pushes a hand through his hair, flopping back on his bed.

“Could have told you that. Gotta go down to So Cal if you want to even try at a normal temperature.”

A brief pause and the noise on the other end fades away, as if Dean had left whatever party he’s at to stand outside.

He snorts. “We seriously talking about the weather, dude?”

Castiel laughs. “Guess so.”

He imagines Dean shaking his head, that stupid grin of his that always came out when he got a little tipsy.

“Well, enough of that crap. Tell me what you’re doing. I miss you.”

Castiel’s breath catches in his throat.

“Um—“

Dean sputters on the other end.

“Yeah, well—best friend. Come on. Haven’t seen you in like two months.”

Castiel closes his eyes.

 _Friends,_ he repeats in his head. _Friends, just friends_

“I’m good. Working on some new stuff. Gabriel says hi.”

There’s not much to tell, staying in a college town during the summer. But there is one thing, one shining thing that has been sitting in his stomach, something he had been itching to tell Dean, but wasn’t sure how.

“I, uh—I thought about what you said. You know. Last semester.”

Dean goes quiet on the other end. When he answers, he seems hesitant.

“Yeah?”

Castiel switches the phone to his other hand, suddenly nervous.

“Checked out that place on 3rd Avenue, you know, the one with—“

“The tattoo parlor?”

Dean sounds surprised. Castiel nods.

“Yeah, you know, just walked in, I mean, I don’t really know what the etiquette is, but I met the owner before, showed her some of my stuff, and she—“

He stops, suddenly giddy. Dean is the first person he’s told.

“She said she’d let me come in a couple times, and if it works out, she’ll take me on as her apprentice, and I just, I don’t know—“

“Cas, fuck—“

Dean is bubbling on the other end, he can barely speak.

“That’s so fucking great, holy shit—“

Castiel bites his lip as the happiness pools up from his gut and threatens to burst out of his chest.

“I’m so—Jesus—are you fuckin’ psyched?? That sounds awesome, _dude_.”

Castiel laughs a little shakily, holding the phone close.

“Yeah, I…I’m really excited. I’m glad I’m doing it. And I, uh…thank you. Really.”

“Of course, Cas. I’m glad you’re happy.”

Castiel sobers, going quiet. His throat is suddenly thick.

“I…um—“

A burst of noise from the other end, a rush of voices—

“Fuck, I’m sorry, Cas, I gotta go, Sammy’s making a fool of himself or something—“

“It’s okay—“

“Call me soon, promise?” More curses, a couple laughs—

“I’m coming, Jesus Christ—“

The call ends, and Castiel stares at his screen for a moment, until it eventually dims, and goes black. He presses the button again to show the time. _4:13 am,_ the display reads. They had been talking for almost an hour. Castiel hadn’t even realized.

He rolls over, burying his head under the covers. He doesn’t know how he manages to fall back asleep, because his stomach is doing somersaults of elation, and he can't help the stupid grin that crosses his face every time he remembers the beautiful pitch of pride in Dean’s voice.

 

Castiel sinks off, dreaming of cold California beaches and green eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It is time to get drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of Time, get drunk; get drunk without stopping! On wine, on poetry, or on virtue, as you wish.”  
> —Charles Baudelaire

April

Senior Year

 

“So are you and Cas, like…together?”

Dean nearly swerves off the road.

 

“'Cause, you know, it’s okay if you are.”

Dean tries to glare at Sam as much as possible without taking his eyes off the road, which of course is impossible.

“What the hell makes you say that?”

Sam shrugs, fiddling with the zipper on his backpack.

“I dunno. The way you look at each other.”

Dean’s fingers clench around the wheel.

“Wh…”

He shakes his head, swallowing hard.

“What way does he…look at me?”

Sam raises an eyebrow.

“Dude. Really?" He shakes his head. "You are oblivious.”

Dean tries to focus on the road, but his heart is threatening to fucking break out of his chest, it’s beating so hard. Cas was—did Cas feel the same way?

 

“Dean, I know it’s none of my business, but…” Sam shakes his ridiculously long hair, sighing. “Don’t rule anything out, okay?”

Dean can’t even answer him, and they spend the rest of the drive in silence, the cogs in his brain whirling as he tries to process.

He wordlessly pulls up to the drop off zone of the airport, putting the car into park, and Sam opens the door, smiling at him.

“Thanks for driving me.”

He hops out of the passenger side and pulls his duffel from the backseat. Dean comes to his senses and bolts out, whirling around the side of the car.

“Sam, wait—“

He sweeps him into a hug, locking his arms around him. Sam drops his bag and hugs him back.

They break apart a moment later—and no, Dean is not crying, thank you very much. He just had the best fucking little brother in the world and there was dust or sunlight or something in both of his eyes.

“Thanks, Sammy,” he whispers.

Sam smiles. “I’ll call you when I land.”

Dean watches him retreat through the sliding glass doors, standing frozen on the pavement. Then something in his brain clunks into place and he’s tearing off down the highway, speeding back to their apartment.

He nearly runs over a couple of pedestrians as he gets back into town, and he barrels into his parking spot, almost forgetting to lock his car before he’s darting up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Yeah, he’s completely sober right now. It’s three in the afternoon and Dean’s not drunk, Cas definitely isn’t drunk, but he doesn’t need alcohol to do this.

For Cas he can be brave. For Cas, he can do anything.

 

He whirls through the doorway and comes to a halt, panting as he locks eyes on Cas. He looks up from his book, blue eyes bright and worried.

“Dean?” He stands, taking in his haphazard appearance, raising an eyebrow.

Dean doesn’t answer him, but now that he’s here, he’s here and real and in front of him, Dean is frozen. Fuck.

The space stretches between them as Dean just stares. Cas doesn’t ask him what’s wrong again, but he swallows hard, not flinching away from his gaze.

Dean clenches his fists, fighting internally with himself.

_Just fucking do it_

“Cas, I—“

He stutters, throat dry.

“I—“

 

Fuck it.

 

He closes the distance between them and seizes Cas’s shirt, pulling him in.

 

It’s pretty awkward, as far as first kisses go, but it’s _Cas_ , Cas’s mouth finally under his, and Dean doesn’t fucking care. He clumsily bumps his nose against Cas’s cheek as he freezes at the first touch of his lips, the paperback slipping from his fingers and falling to the floor. Dean’s hands are scrambling, trying to find some place to anchor themselves—but Cas seizes his wrists and pulls away, staring at him.

 

“What the hell was that?”

 

Dean’s heart drops. Fuck. Of course he didn’t feel the same, this was a mistake, no, abort abort abort—

He tries to struggle away, but Cas doesn’t let him.

“Dean.”

Something in his voice makes him freeze. That wasn’t Cas's angry voice, that wasn’t his confused voice. That was what Cas sounded like when he was talking about his favorite book, when he was describing the way sunlight looks on the water of the Seine, when he was about to burst. When he talks about the things he loves.

Loves.

 

Dean gasps.

“I love you,” he chokes out.

Cas’s face blanks.

“What?”

Dean can’t stop it now, it’s like a floodgate has been opened, and he just fucking spills.

“I love you, you idiot—“

He shakes in his grip, squeezing his eyes shut.

“I love your stupid face and your ridiculous blue eyes and your hair that looks like its never seen a fucking comb—“ Dean fights back tears, his voice trembling.

“I love the way you talk about art, and how you always know what to say, and your laugh, which is pretty much the most beautiful sound in the whole goddamn world—“

Cas's mouth is hot against his own, his tongue surging forward in between his lips, and Dean gasps, his eyes shocking open.

Cas breaks the kiss, breathing hard.

“Dean. Shut up.”

 

He wraps his arms around his waist and kisses him again, and Dean just melts. This is _Cas_ , Cas kissing him, Cas clutching at his cheeks, his hair, his fingers on his throat.

Cas twists in closer to him, hands pushing up underneath his shirt and trailing over his stomach, and Dean clenches, letting out a groan. Cas grabs the back of his neck and their lips part, but they don’t move away. He touches his cheek, getting lost and just staring at him. Dean swallows, his hand coming to wrap around his wrist.

“Cas…" He starts. "How long—“

Cas shakes his head, like Dean’s the stupidest thing on the planet. Which he probably is.

“Dean.” He takes his hand. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since the moment we met.”

 

*

 

Dean falls back on his bed, and it is way too fucking dark in here, but he can’t be bothered with shit like light switches when Cas is half naked and there’s a bed and lube and condoms and oh god this is really happening.

“Cas—“ Dean says impatiently. “Get your ass over here right now.”

“Shut up, Dean— _ow_ —“

A thumping noise, followed by muffled curses. Dean sits up, scrambling for the light. He gets the lamp on to reveal Cas on the ground, struggling with his jeans.

“Dude, did you seriously just trip over your own pants?”

Castiel rolls over, finally shucking them off. “Fuck you.”

Dean grins at him. “That’s the idea.”

Cas practically _growls_ and clambers onto the bed, falling down on top of him and kissing his smirk away. Dean runs his hands up and down his back, feeling that smoothness underneath his hands, Cas’s lean muscles rippling underneath his skin as he pins him to the bed, slowly rocking his hips.

Dean groans as Cas leans forward, kissing his way down his throat.

“Just to let you know—“ He cuts off with a sharp intake of breath as Cas’s hand drags over his crotch.

“You—oh—“

He arches back, trying to speak evenly.

“You are never hearing the end of this—“

Cas squeezes his dick and Dean cries out, biting his lip.

“ _Fuck_.”

Cas leans back down, mouthing at his jaw.

“Is that so?” His lips find the line of his throat, brushing over him softly. His hands wander down, down, to curl around his thighs and sink into his skin, and Dean leans back, trying to breathe.

“I have to say…” Cas whispers into his neck. “You are insufferable.”

Dean smirks even as Cas licks his way down his chest, teasing the soft skin of his stomach.

“Ohh, I love it when you talk dirty.”

But suddenly Cas pulls back, eyes dangerous.

“Oh,” he whispers darkly. “Do you?”

Before Dean can answer, he seizes his waist and flips him over, pinning him so fast that he can barely register what’s happening.

But then Cas snakes against him, and Dean jerks forward, hissing. Cas grinds down on him, whispering soft in his ear, pinning his hands. Dean digs his fingers into the sheets beneath him. Shit, _shit—_ he had only been half-joking, but this…

Cas is murmuring harsh words into his ear, and they shoot straight through him, down to his cock, through his veins, his soul, heightening everything.

“You want to know something?” He hisses.

Cas straddles him, pinning his hips to the bed and biting down on his ear, just hard enough to hurt good.

“I’ve heard you,” he teases, dragging the tips of his fingers up the inside of his thigh. Dean shudders, thrusting back against him him. Cas taunts him, those cool spots of heat brushing over his rim, just shy of pushing inside.

“You think you’re so subtle, Winchester—“

“Cas—“ He gasps out, heaving.

He nestles against him, one hand finding the back of his neck and pushing it down to the mattress.

“But you know…” Cas kisses his damp skin, taking his time. “You’re really not…”

He slips forward, thrusting against him, and Dean writhes underneath the touch, panting. He just needed Cas to fuck him already—

“You’re pretty loud,” Cas murmurs, lips finding his ear.

“I always heard you, your groans, everything you want, right through the wall—“

Dean arches back, shaking, almost losing it. He had jacked off to the feeling of Cas before, to the fantasy of his hands, his arms, his tight heat around him—but now…

He was finally there— _here—_ touching him softly, his warm body enveloping him, whispering filth and trust into his ear, and Dean was ready—to follow, to obey him, to sink over the edge and never look back.

“Always,” he murmurs. “Always imagined it was me, fucking you open, holding you down—“

Dean groans, pushing his hips up against Cas. He can feel him, against his thighs, his skin, but he wants more, _more_ , he wants Cas inside him, in him, he wants him to stop fucking talking and get down to it already.

“Cas, god, _Cas,_ you fucker—“

His hands drift down his sides, and Dean reels as the feeling of _want_ hits him, that soft burning soaking through his entire body, his limbs loosening, his muscles soft and struggling towards Cas’s words. His hand finds his own, breathing softly in his ear.

“Jesus, who are you?" Dean murmurs.

Cas rolls against his body, breathing hard. A hand nudges slick fingers against him and Dean doesn’t even know when that happened, _how_ it happened, but as Cas’s svelte voice digs into his brain—he realizes he doesn’t fucking care. He just wants Cas inside him. He just wants Cas.

He rocks up against him again and Dean dips his head forward, panting against the sheets as he thrusts back against Cas's hand, begging him to push in deeper.

“I’ll be whatever you want me to be,” Cas says softly, his breath tickling his cheek as he works him open, his other hand stroking down his back. Dean can barely breathe, he’s lost in the sensation, in the beautiful warm weight of Cas on top of him.

“And you…” Cas kisses his shoulder, mouth slack as he pants against his skin. “You’ll always be what I want.”

Dean shudders, shaking from the combination of Cas’s words and fingers and oh, fuck, was this real? God—

Cas’s teeth scrape gently against the back of his neck, his hot breath soaking into him. Dean pushes himself onto his knees, shifting and rolling back.

“Cas—“

He responds with a soft hand on his hip, steadying him. Dean is shaking.

“Cas,” he gasps again. “Please, please—“

Those hands pause on his skin, and Dean hears him draw in a deep shuddering breath. Dean rocks again.

“Cas, c’mon, oh—fuck—“

“You sure?”

Dean snarls in impatience. “Stop asking fucking stupid questions and get over here.”

Cas growls and seems to forget his hesitation—he just dives forward, pulling Dean's face around to give him a hard and dirty kiss before pulling away, slicking himself up and rolling on a condom.

Dean buries his face in the sheets, trying to calm his breath as Cas shifts behind him. He can’t believe this has happened, that they’re happening, that Cas is soft and gentle on top of him, slowly slipping inside and wrapping him up tight in his arms—

He moves forward smoothly and Dean jerks, gasping. Cas’s hand is soft on his neck.

Dean takes a deep breath, his whole body locking. It’s hard at first, it’s foreign—a burning press inside him, splitting him apart, but Cas is whispering soft in his ear, soothing him, moving a calming hand up his side, his hip, down his thigh as he moves inside him, twisting and reassuring.

“Yeah...yeah, Dean, oh, god—“

Cas shifts forward, rolling against the slick skin of his back, a beautiful expanse of tan skin that slips perfectly against his own. Dean takes a deep breath and stops fighting with it. He relaxes, knowing that it’s Cas, that he trusts him with his life. That's when it stops being pain and tips over the edge into pleasure, and he groans—pushing back into Cas’s movements, panting when it sends a shot of sparks through him. Cas nearly loses his grip, falling forward, tucking his head into the crook of his neck.

“Just like that… _fuck_ —“

He wraps around him, panting into his skin. “Dean, _Dean._ ”

Dean moans underneath the touch, reaching up and clenching as he wraps around Cas, hand finding the back of his neck and holding on tight for all he’s worth. He twists under him, desperate to find Cas’s mouth again, and Cas obliges him, meeting him with a sloppy combination of tongue and teeth, panting.

Dean can’t handle it—his whole body is scorching with fire and pleasure as Cas moves inside him, but he has to be closer, has to see his face.

“Cas—“ he gasps, falling away from him. “You—“ He hunches forward, panting. “Gotta see you—“

He can’t really articulate it, but Cas seems to know, because he always knew didn’t he? And he gently turns him over, until their faces are level, cradling an arm around Dean's head as he surges forward again, kissing him hard. He slips in effortlessly, and it’s Dean who guides him in this time, struggling towards the press of Cas inside him, wrapping his legs around his waist, holding him close.

Cas breathes out his name, hot and fast against his skin, holding his eyes. Dean keeps it up as long as he can, but Cas is so perfect, so beautiful, so bright, and he can’t—he can’t look at him like this without crying, without becoming a fucking sentimental sappy mess—

So he turns, Dean turns and buries his face into his shoulder, whimpering slightly. Cas is soft and warm around him, and his mouth hot and perfect, humming comforts into his skin. He thrusts forward, pushing up into him, hitting him in that one spot each time, over and over, and Dean reels, holding on to Cas for sanity, for balance, biting down on his shoulder, breathing hard through his nose.

Cas's voice is all for him, his breath in his ear is all for him, the fingers digging into his back are all for him. Cas rolls up into him again, pacing him through an easy rhythm that’s so slow it’s unbearable, leaving Dean gasping for air. Cas strokes his hair, tugging at it and kissing his temple, and Dean can feel his whole body tense as Cas clutches him tighter, every muscle in his back straining underneath his fingers.

Dean seizes his arms and whimpers, trying to force his way against him, wanting to feel more, more Cas, more everything, more, just _more._

“Please,” he gasps. “I need you—Cas, I need—“

He can’t speak anymore, he’s just spilling out nonsense, but Cas holds him, holds him as he shivers, talking him down off the edge, putting him back together. Cas kisses him, holds Dean gently as he shakes—but he can feel Cas stuttering, his gentle touches now uncoordinated and messy, and Dean knows he’s close. But Dean wants to see him—wants to see his face.

So he pulls back and finds his eyes again, kissing him, just once.

“Come on, Cas,” he murmurs, and Cas lets out a soft, wounded sound, lips parting. “Come on, baby. Come on—”

The petname slips out before he can stop himself, but he doesn't regret it, because the way Cas responds nearly kills him. He grabs his hand and stiffens, his movements stilling—and—

Cas.

Cas’s face is beautiful when he comes, he’s so peaceful and imperfect that Dean wants to cry. His whole body freezes, hot and fast—and then he sinks, muscles trembling as he tries to contain himself. It’s a look Dean will come to memorize and cherish, something he’ll spend his days imagining, something he’ll spend his nights seeing, real and in front of him. The scent and touch of Cas under his hands as they die and collapse, the feel of him, as they build each other back up, fighting together.

Cas closes his eyes as he tries to breathe, and Dean touches every part of him he can reach, stroking, caressing, loving.

“Hey.”

He brushes a thumb over his cheek, his lips, where Cas is drawing in ragged breaths, still shaking.

“You okay?”

Cas nods slowly, finally opening and blasting him with that look, _that look_ , his unbelievable eyes that he had always loved—now even more beautiful and whole as they look at him, here, in his bed, naked and open.

And Cas doesn’t forget—he gets him there, sinking into him with words of adoration and heat. Cas surges forward and wraps him up in his arms, filling him, reaching down. Dean gasps, falling back, hands scrambling to find him, and he does, their fingers locking together, and oh—

One more touch from Cas—and then he’s coming, spilling over their stomachs, feeling his whole body shudder and go loose.

Dean sees stars, melting as Cas pants above him, catching his breath. He collapses, flopping over onto his back next to him. Dean’s vaguely aware of him turning, of him trying to clean them up as best as he can, but he can’t move, not even to help. There’s no thoughts anymore, just the two of them. Everything else has faded away.

An arm curls around his waist and Cas’s lips are at his neck, kissing away the sweat on his skin. The touch grounds him and pulls him back to reality, long enough to say two words.

 

“Holy shit.”

 

Then Dean can’t hold it back anymore, and he starts to laugh, feeling Cas’s own soft laughter rumble through his chest, vibrating against his.

“Ditto,” he whispers, pulling him around to kiss him again. Dean sinks into the feel of him, reveling in the taste, the way Cas’s hands move over his skin, like he’s something to be revered, to be worshipped. They part breathlessly a moment later, and Dean reaches out, brushing the hair away from his eyes.

“Why didn’t we do this sooner?”

Cas huffs, curving a leg over his hip.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Winchester...but you’re kind of an idiot.”

Dean growls and half-heartedly shoves him as Cas laughs, refusing to let him escape from his arms.

“If I’m an idiot, you’re kind of a dick.”

“I can live with that.”

Cas sinks their foreheads together, dragging the tips of his fingers up his back. Dean lets out a soft contented sound, closing his eyes.

They lie there for a minute, just breathing. Cas’s hand drifts idly through his hair, combing soft patterns into his scalp. He presses soft almost-kisses to Dean's face, his cheeks, his nose. Dean floats, and he isn’t sure how long they’ve been lying there, just holding each other. He doesn’t care. It’s nice.

“I love you, too.”

 

Cas’s confession was so quiet Dean almost didn’t hear it.

He snaps his eyes open, sitting up so quickly that Cas’s arms slide off from around him. Cas looks up at him curiously, in that weirdly sweet way of his.

“You…” Dean can’t speak. He just stares at him. 

“Say it again.”

Cas smiles. “I love you.”

Dean is trembling, and he reaches out to touch him again, his face splitting out into an impossibly wide grin. Cas sits up slightly to take his hand, but Dean can’t do anything but stare. This was his, Cas was finally _his._ And he was Cas’s. There was no denying that.

Cas breaks him out of his daze by pulling him in for a slow kiss, his tongue slipping out and coaxing him into the curve of his body again. Dean groans, pressing him down.

Cas murmurs love into his skin, mapping out his body and memorizing him, slowly rolling against him as Dean tries to keep it together. He curls his hands around Cas’s head and moves with him, whispering softly, trading confessions, everything they had silenced over the years, too scared to let show.

Cas’s hands slip up his back and his neck, tickling his skin and holding him soft, but firm. His mouth drifts from his lips to his cheek, over the edge of his jaw and down the line of his throat. Dean groans.

“Fuck—“

He arches as Cas nips at his neck, alternating little bites of pain edging the pleasure and heightening everything, sending all the blood rushing south again. Cas doesn’t fail to notice this and practically growls at him, shoving his hips up.

“Round two?” He asks in that rough scraping voice of his, and Dean nods breathlessly, rocking on top of him as he meets his lips again, panting into his mouth. He moves slowly against him, and Dean’s breath is getting faster and faster, when a shrill sound shocks them out of it.

 

Dean’s phone is blaring from his pants pocket, and they both bolt up, staring in the direction of the noise.

“Shit—“

Dean disentangles himself from Cas with no little difficulty, seeing as he was now making it his personal mission to make sure Dean didn’t get out of bed.

Dean practically falls over and off the mattress as he digs among their discarded clothes. “It’s probably Sammy,” he blurts in explanation. Cas just laughs at him.

Dean yanks the phone out but immediately tumbles back into Cas's arms, as if he couldn’t bear to not be touching him.

He answers it, breathless.

“Yeah?”

“Hey, Dean.”

“Sam.”

 

Cas’s hands snake around his waist and Dean glares at him, slapping his hands away.

“Just wanted to call and say I got in okay.”

“Oh, okay, good! Flight wasn’t b—“

Cas’s hands dip into a spot they definitely should _not_ be, and Dean gasps out loud, at the last second managing to turn it into a cough.

“Bad. Bad?”

Dean nearly groans as Cas’s fingers start dancing over the already-tender flesh between his legs and he reaches back to push his hand away, but only ends up clutching tight to Cas’s wrist, writhing against his chest.

There’s a pause at the other end of the line.

“Uh…you okay, Dean?”

Dean bites his lips and nods, not trusting himself to speak. Then he realizes Sam can’t actually see him over the damn phone, and sighs shakily, preparing himself.

“Yes,” he squeaks out. “Fine. Fine.”

Cas, that bastard—he’s laughing silently against his back, his tongue and his fingers seeking out every single fucking pleasure point Dean has on his body, fuck—

“Okay. Well…” He can hear the amusement hovering in Sam’s voice. “Thanks again for letting me stay with you.”

Cas’s other hand wraps loosely around his cock and Dean claps a hand over his mouth, biting back a groan.

“Yeah, yeah no problem,” he rushes out, trying to slide back into what he hopes is a straight tone.

“Okay. Guess I’ll talk to you soon.”

Dean doesn’t dare answer him. Sam pauses.

“Tell Cas I said hi.”

He can hear him laughing as he hangs up, and Dean practically throws his phone across the room before whirling and shoving Cas back down to the mattress, snarling at him.

“You fucking asshole—“

Cas laughs hysterically and Dean tries to pin him, but it only turns into a impromptu wrestling match, which of course manages to turn into them making out, and okay, maybe having some really fantastic pseudo-angry sex.

When Cas finally lets him drift off to sleep, Dean’s exhausted and unbearably happy, his brain feeling like it’s about to short-circuit from the complete 180 his life had made in the past six hours.

 

Cas finally wrapped around him, his warm breath on his skin, his hand holding his.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's a (very short) epilogue. Thank you so much for reading!

We could get love drunk together,

Tell the bartender two shots of Forever.

—Unknown

 

August

 

Graduation and summer had been a whirlwind, of heat and road trips, of sex and laughter, nights of cool stillness and days bursting with life. Cas was thriving under his apprenticeship, Dean had a job offer lined up for the fall. The only dark spot was Cas’s brief fallout with his family after they simultaneously found out he was dating a guy and planning on being a tattoo artist.  That month had been kind of hard, but they had eventually come round, begrudgingly accepting it. Cas refused to take his dad’s money anymore though, and he had enough saved from his various jobs throughout the years to put a deposit down on a nice little place, barely a 10 minute walk from the parlor.

Futures were bright, good times were had.

But they hadn’t talked about it. 

 

 _It._ The fact that Dean was leaving in less than two weeks, and they didn’t know where they stood. Cas had tried to bring it up a couple of times, but Dean always wormed his way out of it, because he’s stupid and overanalyzes everything. He was going to try and avoid the inevitable for as long as possible. Of course Cas didn’t want to do this anymore, he didn’t want to be tied down, and everyone knows phone sex sucks and long distance things never work—

“Can you grab that one in the back?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

This is the other thing he’d been dreading. Cleaning out their apartment. Most of their stuff was already boxed up, but Dean couldn’t help but feel like this was some sort of sick metaphor. Strip away all the memories, all the stuff that made them them, Dean and Cas, Cas and Dean. Until there was nothing but bare walls.

He starts to sweat.

 

There’s a soft hand on his arm. “Hey.”

Cas’s face swims into focus.

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

Cas frowns at him as he turns his back and keeps pulling down bottles from the walls. This was the other thing they had both left ‘til last, procrastinating.

Dismantling the graveyard.

 

Dean was loathe to get rid of anything, even the smaller stuff, and he absolutely wanted to keep the most important ones, but he couldn’t move halfway across the country with a bag of bottles strapped to his back.

Cas absolutely refused to keep any of them, insisting they were relics of their crappy college apartment, and had no place in his shiny new oh-so-professional lifestyle. Or something. Dean had been too busy locked up inside his own head to remember the exact reason.

They get everything shoved into recycling bags and carry them out to the curb. Dean spares them a last glance as they walk back inside. They look so forlorn, sitting in the gutter, waiting to be taken away.

“Still doesn’t feel right,” he grumbles as Cas shuts the door behind them. Cas snickers.

“We took pictures.”

“Yeah, but…I dunno.” Dean can’t tell him the truth, that he’s really just equating Cas getting rid of the graveyard to Cas getting rid of him.

“You couldn’t keep them. You’re going to New York.”

“Yeah, I know, don’t fucking remind me.”

Cas is quiet.

“Dean.”

He tenses. Nope, nope, not doing this now.

“Fuck, Cas, come on—“

“Can I ask what else you’re planning on leaving behind?”

Dean stares at him. “What?”

Cas’s eyes are pleading. “You know what I mean.”

Dean tries to escape into the living room. “No, I can’t—“

Cas blocks his path.

“Dean. We have to talk about this.” He’s masking his frustration well.

Dean freaks. This was it, this was it, shit—

He got tired of him, he got bored, maybe he found someone else, who the hell knows—

Cas grabs his shoulders and stops him.

“Dean. Stop freaking out.”

 

Dean tugs away from his grip and Cas flinches, drawing back. Dean doesn’t fail to notice, and he seizes at the distraction.

“What happened to your arm?”

He expects Cas to ignore him and just dive back into their almost-fight, but he doesn’t. Cas lets out a sigh.

“Just a little sore is all,” he says, gingerly rubbing his left shoulder. Dean’s eyes snap to the place.

“From what?”

Cas’s stained glass eyes fall upon him. Dean’s heart is in his mouth.

 

“You want me to show you?” He asks quietly. Dean can’t answer him. He just nods.

Cas starts unbuttoning his shirt, and Dean has to back up a little so that the wall is supporting him. Cas finally shrugs out of his shirt, turning to show him. Dean skips right over the familiar lines in his skin, the pattern curving around his forearm, the dips and whorls across the line of his back, but there—

Sensitive, slightly pink flesh on his left shoulder. A new tattoo, perhaps only a day old.

Four symbols, set in dark heavy ink, linked together in a poetic sort of flow, beautiful and perfect against the tan flesh of Cas’s skin. Dean can’t breathe.

 

“Then of course, if I ever found someone, I’d get their name tattooed,” Cas says softly, repeating his words from all those months ago. “In Enochian.”

Dean doesn’t dare speak. He just reaches out, touching Cas’s arm. He shivers a little.

“I’d—“

Cas dips his head, eyes closed.

“I’d tattoo you all over my skin if it meant I got to keep you forever,” he tells the floor, as if it was an admission he couldn’t bear anyone to hear.

Dean breaks out of his haze at that, staring at him.

“What?” He breathes, barely able to get it out.

Castiel doesn’t answer. He just fixes him with that impossibly clear gaze, perfect in its imperfection.

Dean reaches out instinctively, finding Cas’s face.

“What do you mean, forever?”

He tries to calm himself. Cas brings his hands up to find his wrists, wrapping those long fingers around the soft skin surrounding the bone. He stares back.

“I mean forever.”

His eyes are bright, if a little pained, and Dean’s heart aches.

“You—“

He hadn’t even thought it was a possibility, that Cas would want this, that Cas would want to stay. He wanted to _stay_.

“You know,” Dean starts shakily. “I think I could do that," he whispers.

Cas goes still, damaged and hopeful.

“Really?”

 

Dean can’t even think about how he’s doing something that had scared him to death ever since he realized what relationships were, what relationships meant—but it’s Cas. He had broken all of his own rules for Cas, and hell if he wouldn’t break a few more.

“You better get fuckin’ used to me, Novak.”

Cas drags him in, trembling a little. Dean sinks into his arms.

“Because I’m sticking around,” he confesses, finally finding his lips.

“Forever,” Dean says finally, fingers brushing the edge of the tattoo, of his name set in Cas’s skin.

Cas brushes the hair away from his eyes, smiling back at him.

 

“Okay, then,” he murmurs. “Forever.”

 


End file.
